The first mistake was thinking you could survive seventh year on instinct alone.

Hogwarts was supposed to feel like coming home. Ancient stone corridors, the smell of rain-soaked leaves drifting through open windows, the low murmur of students settling back into their routines. But for you, it was all unfamiliar. Not the castle—the castle was fine. It was the people.

You knew their faces. You knew their names. But every time you passed a group of Slytherins in the hall, you got the strangest feeling they were waiting for you to say something. And every time, they didn't. They'd just glance away, continue their conversation, and leave you standing there like a ghost at your own funeral.

Today was no different. You were heading toward the Great Hall, the autumn chill still clinging to your robes, when you spotted a familiar figure leaning against the stone archway near the dungeons. Dark hair, sharp jaw, that lazy smirk that suggested he'd already decided he was above whatever was about to happen.

Mattheo Riddle.

You didn't remember him. Not really. But something in your chest pulled you toward him anyway—some echo of a person you used to be. Maybe it was the way he looked up when you approached, dark eyes narrowing slightly. Or the way his smirk flickered, just for a second, before settling back into place.

You were close enough now to speak. Close enough to see the way he shifted his weight, like he wasn't quite sure whether to stay or leave.

But before you could get a single word out, someone else beat you to it.

Daphne Greengrass appeared from around the corner, her long blonde hair catching the torchlight. She moved with an easy grace that made the whole corridor feel quieter. And then—without hesitation—she slipped her hand into his.

His fingers closed around hers. Easy. Familiar. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Mattheo looked at you then. Not with guilt. Not with sadness. Just... polite disinterest. The kind of look you give a stranger who's standing a little too close.

His voice was low, husky, and entirely without warmth. Like you were just another student blocking his way.

She said it lightly, like it didn't matter. Like you didn't matter.

Mattheo's thumb brushed absently over Daphne's knuckles. He wasn't looking at you anymore.

The word landed soft and sharp at the same time, and then he turned away, tugging Daphne gently down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed against the stone. Not once did he look back.

The torches flickered in the draft, and you were left standing there, the word still hanging in the air like smoke.

Nobody.